Call Me Maybe
by Lily Thistle
Summary: John Watson is back from Afghanistan. Nothing happens to him until he meets Sherlock Holmes. And acquires a telephone number.
1. Chapter 1

Your stare was holdin'

Ripped jeans, skin was showin'

Hot night, wind was blowin'

_- Call Me Maybe_, Carly Rae Jepsen

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**Chapter 1 – The One Where John Is All Alone**

John Watson wakes with a start. He had been dreaming again, the same old dream, or rather nightmare. Somehow the memories still come back and haunt him, not matter how hard he tries to forget. It still hurts, even after all these months of living in London, far away from the war. The war that had cost him so much.

John sits up and tries to breathe deeply and slowly. He shakes his head violently as if this movement would help to dispel the horrible memories. But they won't go away. After a few minutes he decides to get up and make himself a nice cuppa. And he should probably get something to eat as well, even though he doesn't feel hungry at all. In fact, he hasn't felt hungry since his return from Afghanistan. No. That's not completely true. He hasn't felt hungry since the day he got shot, the day he lost so much.

Leaning on his crutch, John slowly makes his way to the kitchen. His trembling left hand makes it really difficult to pour the hot water into his cup. He spills some onto the floor, but cannot be bothered to mop it up. It doesn't make any difference, really. On the way back to his room, he picks up an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table, even though he knows that he will just leave it on his desk, untouched.

After putting down his cup of tea and sitting down at his table, he opens the topmost drawer and takes out his red laptop. He switches it on. And then he just sits there, staring at the screen, not moving a muscle. He stares and stares and stares, while his tea slowly cools.

His therapist told him he should run a blog. Writing down what happened to him every day would help him to cope with what had happened in Afghanistan. There is just one flaw in this otherwise entirely flawless plan: nothing ever happens to John.

Since his return to England, John spends every day doing exactly the same: he gets up (often after only four or five hours of sleep, thanks to the recurring nightmares), spends some time staring at his laptop, goes out to get some lunch (even though he has no idea why he even bothers), takes a nap for two hours (if you can call waking up after ten minutes of light sleep, trembling all over from nightmares he doesn't even remember a nap), goes for a walk (just so he can escape the loneliness and emptiness of his small apartment), and finally tries to read a book or watch a movie, but gives up every time after a couple of minutes. Three times a week he goes to see his therapist, but he doesn't have the feeling that he's making any progress. How could she possibly understand what he's going through, she with her happy marriage and her two wonderful children and her detached house with the garden that goes all the way down to that little creek?

Nobody could possibly understand what John is going through, not even his family. Especially not his family. There are so many things they don't know about him. There are so many things they shouldn't know about him. Some things are better left unsaid. Right after his return from Afghanistan, John had thought about talking to his family. After his dad's sudden and quite unexpected death two years ago, things are a bit easier. His mum probably would understand him. But John doesn't want to face her and tell her the truth. He doesn't want to complicate her life. And Harry? Harry tried to help him, all right. But John turned down her help, partly because he is too proud, partly because he doesn't approve of the way his sister treaded her wife during their divorce. And the drinking. John mostly disapproves of his sister because of the drinking. He can't even remember the last time he saw her sober.

Later that day, John goes for a walk. It's a rather cold evening in November, around six. It's nearly completely dark. But John doesn't mind the darkness; he quite likes it, in fact. It makes him feel safe and protected. Today, he decides to walk up the hill near his apartment. From up there, he has an excellent view over the city.

It seems as if there is more life in the city during the first few hours of the night than during the day. All the lights are glistening, twinkling, sparkling, some bright and dazzling, some warm and inviting, some so brilliantly white that even glancing at them is worse than staring directly into the sun on a very clear summer's day, others shining in all the shades of orange, from amber to gold, from ochre to peach. Sometimes, it is even possible to spot small blue and violet dots in this sea of glittering, shiny white and orange lights. John often counts those blue and violet lights, because the colours remind him of a pair of eyes that are long gone. And when he's done counting, his own eyes wader to the flashing red beacons enthroned on the tops of the highest glass towers, keeping watch over their buildings and, so it would seem, over the whole city, looking down on lively streets.

Those streets themselves wind, meander their way through the city, through canyons made of glass and steel, brick and clay, like enormous veins, pulsating with life and noise. They are clearly distinguishable against all the small dots of light, coming out of the windows alongside their path. Some of them even manage to shine brighter than all the blazing white lights and burn brilliantly until they reach the outskirts and slowly begin to fade away into the impenetrable darkness surrounding this sea of street lamps, traffic lights and lit windows. John often wonders what it would be like to live behind one of those windows with a family or at least one person who cares about him. And sometimes he wonders what would happen if he would just follow one of those streets, leave the city and never look back.

Only one element of the scenery remains truly dark and calm and peaceful: one river moves majestically, sublimely beautiful through the heart of the city, untouched and unimpressed by all the hustle and bustle framing it. Even the frail attempts to make it a part of the lively surroundings are destined to fail; the few feeble lights floating on the tranquil surface of the river are swallowed by all the darkness and silence, for the heartbeat of the city does not spread as far as to the vast amounts of water in its midst. This is the true soul, the true essence of life – without it, the city would not be able to survive; sooner or later it would perish. John sometimes smiles when he thinks about this. It's not a happy smile; it's full of sadness and regret. John is like the city without its river. He lost his river, his soul, his essence of life.

Nobody could possibly understand what John is going through, not even his friends. John Watson doesn't have _friends_. He doesn't need friends. He decided that while he was still in Afghanistan. Afghanistan had taught him that having friends (and, in one case, more than a friend) just led to suffering and despair. He couldn't possibly go through all that again, all the misery, the sorrow, the anguish, the pain. No, alone is what John Watson has. Alone protects him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – The One With Mike Stamford**

John wakes with a start. Again. Like almost every morning. But today something is different. Today, he doesn't feel as alone and lost as he normally does. He even manages to calm down within a few minutes.

John is happy. No. Happy would be an exaggeration. John is cheery. He can't explain this sudden cheeriness. He wonders if there's something wrong with him. This thought even makes him laugh. Not a normal laugh, but something that sounds more like a short, loud bark. Did he really just wonder what's wrong with him when he's feeling happy? No. Cheery. Anyway, this is just silly. Months and months of sadness and depression and dark thoughts and he never asked himself if there was something wrong with him. And when he's happy (well, cheery) for the first time in nearly a year, he worries.

Today, the tea doesn't cool before John drinks it. Today, the apple isn't left on the desk, untouched. Today, John's hand isn't trembling as badly as it normally does. But still, his blog remains empty. That hasn't changed. Nothing happens to John Watson. So John decides to change that.

After his sparse breakfast, John leaves his apartment and gets the tube into the city. It's Christmas time. The streets are decorated with all kinds of holiday lights, from reindeers to little dancing elves, from snowflakes to icicles. The shop windows shine in red and green and gold. John strolls down Regent Street and looks at all the people passing. They appear to be stressed out and not very happy (or cheery); they scurry along without paying much attention to the thin, short man in his black coat.

John is just looking at a particularly nice watch in one of the decorated shop windows, when someone stops and looks at him. "John? John Watson?"

John looks at the stranger. He is about the same age as John, but rather stout. He wears a pair of old-fashioned glasses and an old coat, his scarf is only loosely tied around his neck. His face is shining with sweat, because he's carrying about twenty bags that seem to be filled to the brim with presents. Still, he looks really happy and also a little bit surprised to see John here. John is pretty sure he has met this man somewhere before, but he can't remember where.

"It's me, Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together," the stranger says, not the least worried that John doesn't seem to recognise him.

"Yes, Mike, hello!" John finally remembers the face. Mike was a year below him when he was training at Bart's.

"Yeah, I know, I've gotten fat," Mike says, while they shake hands. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot," John simply replies.

John decides to join Mike for lunch at the Holborn, a rather expensive restaurant near Regent Street. They reminisce about old times and talk about what has happened to them since their graduation. Mike is married and has four children, the fifth on the way. This explains all the presents. Moreover, he is now a teacher at Bart's. He tells John stories about the students and the teachers, most of it gossip for which John has no use, because he doesn't know those people, but the stories remind him of his own time at Bart's. And John tells Mike about the war, about Afghanistan, about all the things he did while he was down there. Even though he doesn't tell him everything it feels good to have someone to talk to, someone who doesn't pity him for getting shot or for having to leave the army, but someone who is genuinely interested in his stories. John also tells Mike about his current situation, about living at the outskirts of London, even though he would rather live somewhere in the city. But he can't afford it, at least not on an army pension.

"You could get a flat share or something," Mike suggests.

John looks up from his Christmas salad (lettuce leaves and tomatoes – green and red), which is so expensive that he's going to have to go without lunch for the rest of the week, and gives a laugh. "Come on! Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Now it's Mike turn to laugh. "That's funny. You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who's the first?" John asks curiously.

"This fellow who is working at the laboratory at Bart's," Mike answers. "He was complaining about having found some rooms near Baker Street or something, but they are too expensive and he can't find someone to go halves with him."

"He's one of the students, then?" John inquires.

"No, not really." Mike pauses to think. "I don't know what he does exactly. He definitely is neither a student nor a doctor. He just uses the chemical laboratory sometimes. And the mortuary. Don't ask me why, though."

"The mortuary?" John echoes surprised. "He sounds like a weird bloke."

Mike shrugs. "I suppose," he says.

John has to admit that this guy sounds intriguing. Well, anything is better than his current life. "I could probably use some weirdness in my life right now," John says, more to himself than to Mike.

Mike smirks. "I could introduce you, if you want."

John shrugs. "Yes, why not."

John accompanies Mike back to St Bart's after lunch. It's really different from his day. The corridors are so much cleaner than he remembers. And the students look so young! He is sure that he didn't look 16 when he trained at Bart's. He hopes that this guy he's about to meet isn't as young as that.

Mike leads him straight to the chemistry laboratory. And it looks even more different than the corridors and the students. It's all new and modern, equipped with expensive looking computers and test tubes and screens. John is careful not to touch anything. He wouldn't be able to replace any of this stuff if he broke it.

Then they're outside Laboratory 7. Mike pushes open the door and they step inside.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update, but I had a very busy summer. I spent the first part trying to watch every movie Benedict Cumberbatch has ever been in. And the second half I spent trying to find new friends. I also discovered "Supernatural", so I was busy crying over Sam and Dean.

I know, the characters aren't strictly speaking "in character", but it's all gonna make sense in the end. Trust me.

Also, I promise that I'm gonna try and update sooner next time.

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**Chapter 3 – The One With The Cheekbones**

Laboratory 7 is a dark room with no windows, dimly lit with fluorescent light. It is filled with even more expensive looking equipment. There is one long table which is covered in papers, pens, test tubes, scalpels, cables, little bottles, big bottles, empty bottles, pipettes, coffee mugs, and plastic bags.

John looks around the room. "It looks a bit different from my day," he says.

Only then he realises that he and Mike are not alone. There is a man standing at the other end of the room, looking into a microscope. John hadn't noticed him before because the room is rather dark. He assumes that this must be Mike's friend

"This is Sherlock Holmes," Mike tells John. "Sherlock, this is a friend of mine, John Watson."

The man looks up from his microscope. "Mike, can I borrow your phone?" he asks.

John notices that his voice is quite deep. Well, really deep. He imagines that if a Jaguar could talk, it would sound like this.

Mike looks at his mobile. "I haven't got a signal on mine, sorry," he answers.

John puts a hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out his phone. "Here. Use mine."

Sherlock starts walking towards John, so that John is finally able to see him properly. And his heart skips a beat.

First of all, Sherlock is considerably taller than John, which isn't surprising, because John isn't very tall. He's wearing a dark blue suit, but no tie. His light blue silk shirt is so tight that John wonders how the buttons manage to stay connected to the fabric. But he can't really worry about that because his eyes are fixated on Sherlock's face. He couldn't say what colour his eyes are, even if his life depended on it. They are blue like the sea on a clear, sunny summer's day, but also grey like the sea after a winter storm, and there are green and brown spots in them, which remind John of boats that are helplessly floating around. Sherlock's hair is black and curly – John has to pull himself together, so as not to reach up and run his fingers through those curls, because, for a short moment, there's nothing he wants to do more. But then his eyes settle on the cheekbones. And his mind goes blank. Because there are no words in the English language to describe those cheekbones.

John registers all these things in a few seconds. Then Sherlock is standing right in front of him and he is reaching out his hand, a hand with surprisingly long, spidery fingers. When John hands him the phone, their hands touch for the fraction of a second, but still the spot where Sherlock touched him becomes very warm und his skin starts to tingle.

Sherlock flips open the phone and starts typing so fast that his long fingers are mere blurs. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John blinks. "Sorry, what?" he asks, confused.

"Which one was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock repeats.

"Afghanistan," John answers. "But how-"

Sherlock hands him back the phone. His hand touches John's hand a little bit longer than necessary. "Thanks", he says and smiles.

John suddenly feels all warm inside. But then Sherlock walks back to his microscope. There he turns around and stares directly into John's eyes. John notices that his cheekbones look completely different in the altered light.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asks. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. And sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you?"

Again, John is confused. He feels as if he's missed an important part of the conversation.

Sherlock apparently notices the confusion on John's face, because he adds: "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John turns to Mike. "So you told him about me?" Everything's starting to make sense now.

But Mike only smiles in a sort of secretive way and shakes his head. "Not a word."

John turns back to Sherlock. "Then who said anything about flatmates?" he asks.

"I did," Sherlock says, smiling slightly. "I told Mike only this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for and here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly home from military service in Afghanistan."

John has no idea how Sherlock could possibly know about his military background. Still confused, he stares at Sherlock, not saying anything.

"I am right then, I presume," Sherlock says, turning back to his microscope.

How could he possibly know all these things? John asks himself. Again, he turns to Mike, but he's still smiling his secretive smile, being busy looking pleased with himself. John is very irritated by Mike's behaviour.

"Yes, you were right," John says after some time. "I just don't understand how you could possibly know so much about me."

"This is what I do for a living, Doctor Watson," Sherlock answers.

And John isn't even surprised that Sherlock knows that he is a doctor. He just asks: "What is it that you do for a living, then?"

Sherlock looks at his watch, then smiles at John again. "I'd love to stay and chat, but I gotta dash," he says. "I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He puts on a dark, expensive looking coat and wraps a blue scarf around his long, slender neck.

John doesn't want Sherlock to leave. But all he can say is: "I thought you were looking for a flatmate."

Now it's Sherlock's turn to look confused. "Yes, I am."

"So?" John asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, do you already have a flat or do we still need to look for one?"

"So you want to move in with me?" Sherlock asks, smiling again. And every time that happens, John gets this strange feeling in his stomach. "You don't mind that I play the violin?"

John smiles back at Sherlock. "No, I don't mind," he answers.

"Wait." Sherlock reaches for a pen and paper on the desk and writes something down. He hands John the piece of paper. "That's my mobile number. Just give me a call when you have time and we can talk about the details." And with that, Sherlock is gone.

John isn't sure about what just happened. He looks down at the piece of paper in his hand. There's a number written on it and beneath that: _xoxo_.

And for the rest of the day John can only think about those cheekbones.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Yes, sorry about the long wait. (And believe me, it's not worth it.) But I went on holiday and then I went back to uni last week. My professors think it's a good idea to start each semester with a couple of exams, which is a lame excuse for not updating sooner. Also, I'm thinking about changing the genre, because the story is going into another direction than I had intended. We'll see.

I'm gonna try and write the next part before Christmas. Really.

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**Chapter 4 – The One Where John Thinks About Stuff**

It's evening, and John is back in his tiny flat. He is exhausted and has difficulties keeping his eyes open. But he knows that he won't be able to fall asleep if he would go to bed now. The thoughts in his head are spinning around at the speed of light. Once, he heard a story about tourists in Florence who are trying to visit as many museums as possible in less than 48 hours; they see so many things and have to cope with so many new impressions that their brains can't handle all the input and, inevitably, they faint. That's how John is feeling right now.

But that's not all. Ever since he left Laboratory 7, he can't stop grinning. On his way back to the flat he had to look at the ground all the time, because people started staring at him suspiciously on the tube. But John can't help grinning, no matter what he is doing or what he is thinking about. And every time his thoughts wander back to that lab and to Sherlock Holmes, his grin grows wider.

All this happiness has made John very tired. But he can't switch off his brain. So he is sitting in his green armchair, with a cup of tea on a small table next to him, watching telly. Well, _watching_ is an exaggeration. He is looking at the screen, but not really seeing. If someone were to walk in right now and ask John what he was watching, he wouldn't be able to give a satisfying answer. John is thinking about the day. First, he had met Mike, whom he hadn't seen in ages. It had been nice to talk to someone besides his therapist. And thanks to Mike, John had met Sherlock Holmes.

Now, here's a thing about John Watson. John has been in love many times. All right, _to be in love_ is too strong a term. Let's call it _to have a crush on_. John has had a crush on someone lots of times before. Like that one time in seventh grade. His parents were really proud of their son, because of his good marks in maths. But all that John wanted was to impress his teacher, a nice, very pretty young woman, who had just graduated from uni. Or that one time in med school – a tutor. Or that other time in med school – a fellow student. The list is actually quite long. John has also had crushes on men before. And then, in Afghanistan … But John doesn't want to think about that right now. Because thinking about what happened in Afghanistan is still too painful.

That's another reason why John can't go to bed. He has to think about if he's ready to commit to another person so soon after, well, everything. So why now? Why are his feelings for Sherlock Holmes so similar to and yet so different from anything he has experienced before? Especially after seeing him only for about ten minutes and after exchanging a couple of sentences with him. John hasn't got an answer to any of these questions, just as he has no idea what's on telly this evening. His feelings are the same and yet completely different, and that's that. (John has a theory, though. It's because of those cheekbones. It's a stupid explanation, but the only one he has at the moment. And let's not forget about the black curls. Every time John's thoughts wander to that particular feature of Sherlock's body, the only thing he can think about is that he wants to touch them.)

And finally John thinks about the reason he met Sherlock Holmes: he is looking for a flatmate, which means that, very soon, they could be living together. And John can't wait to see where it goes from there. Because if there's one thing in this mess he's sure of, then it's that his feelings are mutual. Even though it's not easy to see through Sherlock Holmes (he seems to be living in a world of his own), John is sure that Sherlock Holmes is most definitely interested in him. After all, he was staring into John's eyes for quite a while, he was touching John's hand longer than necessary when he handed him back his phone, and he was smiling at John almost all the time. So when John finally does go to bed, he makes a mental not to call Sherlock Holmes the next day.

When John wakes up in the morning, he isn't so sure anymore. After all, he could be imagining things. He has spent so much time on his own lately that he is yearning for contact with other humans. So maybe his mind is playing tricks on him. Maybe he _wants_ Sherlock Holmes to be interested in him. Also, that nightmare isn't helping. In his dream he had called Sherlock, but Sherlock had started laughing at him, and had told him that everything was just a joke and that he wasn't looking for a flatmate. But John knows better than that. If Afghanistan has taught him one thing, it's to seize every opportunity. And that's what he's going to do.

The first time John calls, Sherlock's phone seems to be switched off, because after ringing once, he gets to the voicemail. But John doesn't leave a message – that's a really weird thing to do. So he goes out for a walk and to get some milk. He always seems to be out of milk.

John takes the tube into the city again. And when he gets off, it's snowing. Snow in London! Miracles do happen, after all. John loves snow; he still gets really excited, as if he was a five-year-old boy. But the few snowflakes turn into a fierce blizzard in the blink of an eye. So John sits down inside a cosy Starbucks and watches the people outside who are trying to find shelter form the snowstorm, while sipping some sort of Christmas Special hot chocolate, which is supposed to taste of hazelnuts, but actually has a vanilla-y kind of taste.

While John is waiting for the storm to die down, he decides to try and call Sherlock again. This time the phone rings four times before John gets to the voicemail. So Sherlock doesn't seem to hear it. Or he can't pick up right now. Or he doesn't _want_ to pick up right now. Maybe John should text him. But Sherlock told him to call him.

John has difficulties getting back home again. If there's one thing about snow in London that's really annoying, then it's that everybody acts as if they've never seen snow before, as if London was some city in the south of Italy where it never snows. So, of course, the public transport system breaks down. London can't handle six inches of snow without descending into chaos. John has to take a cab, which is taking ages to reach his flat. He doesn't even want to think about the bill. On the other hand, he really enjoys driving through a snowy London. It looks just like a fairytale with all the holiday lights illuminating the streets. For the first time in nearly 24 hours, John stops grinning. He rests his head against the cool glass of the car window and just smiles happily.

Back home, he tries calling Sherlock again. This time the phone rings twice. It's as if Sherlock has decided not to take the call. John feels a tiny bit disappointed. But even though he has tried to call Sherlock thrice now - unsuccessfully - he still is quite happy. Or let's call it contented. So he makes himself a cup of tea and sits down in front of the telly.

His phone wakes him quite abruptly. Is the ringtone always that loud? Well, it certainly is at two o'clock in the morning. John must've fallen asleep in front of the TV. And now his phone is ringing for a second time. John yawns, rubs his eyes, and grabs it. But his brain is too tired and drowsy to be able to make any sense of the name on the screen.

John picks up, his voice heavy with sleep. "Hello?"

"Hello, Doctor Watson," a really deep voice says, "Sherlock Holmes here."

Suddenly, John is wide awake. "Mr Holmes," he stammers. "Is everything all right? Has something happened?"

"Actually, I wanted to ask you that," Sherlock replies. "After all, you called me three times today."

"Yes, I did," John mumbles. He's a tiny bit confused by the genuine concern in Sherlock's voice. "I wanted to talk to you about the flat and all."

Silence. "Oh!" Sherlock finally exclaims. "And I thought that something terrible has happened. I didn't expect you to get back to me on this matter quite so quickly."

John doesn't even know how to respond to that. But he has to say something, so he tries to come up with a reasonable explanation. "I thought it would be best to discuss the matter before Christmas. Because the longer we wait –"

Sherlock interrupts John. "All right," he says. "What are you doing Christmas Eve?"


End file.
